Awkward Encounter with a Neo-Nazi
2015: It was a gorgeous day on the island of Koh Samui, Thailand. On the way to our hotel, I noticed a large man dancing aggressively in the street. He walked out of a tattoo parlor, shirtless, and was beaming with pride over his new ink. Putting on a show by incorporating the Sieg Heil while krumping to a Lil Wayne song. The tattoo was a swastika over his heart. A bold statement to get near the Israeli part of town on Shabbat.
The artist surely didn’t care about leaving it unwrapped and unmoisturized in the mid-day sun. I bet licenses could have been revoked by how botched it was outlined. Cause it was black and red, clearly inflamed and bleeding down his chest. Practically carved into his skin, like it was purposefully designed to look like a gory pinwheel. He must have been in an opiate or alcohol-induced fever dream because he didn’t put up a fuss.
I would have loved to rain down fire and lightning on him too.
However, I’m forced to pick and choose my battles wisely due to my stature. My ex did not have the same level of comprehension. He told the neo-nazi to go fuck himself and flipped him the bird as we drove by. Rightfully seething with anger while on an unbalanced motorbike with two 40-lb backpacks haphazardly layered between his legs. We could have easily crashed into a tuk-tuk. And as a couple, he was a short, thin man accompanied by myself, an even shorter, thin woman. No one would have looked at us as a prime example of intimidation.
Once he realized he had taken the wrong turn; we had to drive awkwardly back to the previous block. The bastard was still dancing and direct eye contact was made. He was angry but, thankfully, too inebriated to do anything about it.
I kindly pointed out to my ex that if he was going to pick a fight with the biggest guy on the island, don’t show him where you were staying. There was no retort. The inevitable tattoo infection would do enough justice for me.
